War for Armageddon
by Alpharius47
Summary: Set in Zahariel's Roboutian Heresy Universe. War has again come to the Armageddon System and the Sons of Horus answer to stop the Greenskin tide. One of their Leaders is Grimaldus High-Chaplain of the XXV. Company of the Sons of Horus.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: 3rd War for Armageddon

I do not own the Warhammer 40000 nor any of its characters. They belong to Games Workshop

Chapter 1: bitter Memories

Grimaldus stood inside the Company Chapel inside the Flagship of his Company. The Lupercal's Wrath is an ancient Battleship, serving the Legion since the Great Scouring. He looked on the Crozius of his Master. Mordred the former High-Chaplain of the of the Sons of Horus. On the Top of the Plinth was a Keypad, each key bearing a Gothic sigil in Gold leaf. Now that Mordred has fallen, it is Grimaldus duty to take his weapon." For I am Grimaldus the Heir of High-Chaplain Mordred loyal Son of the First Warmaster." Slowly Grimaldus was entering the deactivation Code for the Stasis field into the Keypad. There was a grinding of ancient engines inside the stone plinth as the blue Field disappeared. Upon the flat surface of the white Stone column, the Crozius rested, freed of the blue illumination that had protected it from the ravage of time. Humbly Grimaldus gripped the maul's haft and raised it in his sure grip. The head was a hammer of Gold and blessed Adamantium fashioned into the shape of eagle wings over a stylised Eye of Lupercal. The shaft was darkened metal as long as the Chaplains own arm. The weapon's ornate caught the dim glow from the lume-globes ensconced in the walls and was painted briefly in flashes of reflected light as he turned it in his hands. Grimaldus stood like this for some time. Admiring the beauty of this piece of war and art.

"Brother", came a voice from behind, he turned, deeply ingrained instincts bringing the weapon to bear. Despite never holding this relict before Grimaldus scarred fingertips found the activation rune on its handle before his hearts could even beat once. The figure smiled to be revealed in such stark illumination. In a face pockmarked and crevassed by decades of battle, he saw the amusement in the younger Marines Eyes. "High-Chaplain", the figure inclined his head in greeting. "Artarion". "We draw near our destination. Estimates put translation back into realspace within the hour. I took the liberty of readying the squad for planetfall." Artarion's grin, much like Artarion himself, was ugly to look upon.

"This World will burn", Grimaldus said without even a shadow of doubt in his voice. "Like all others before."

Artarion's scratched lips parted to reveal steel teeth – implanted replacements due to a sniper shot fifteen years before. The rifle round had taken him in the side of the face, shattering his jaw. The mess of jar tissue webbing the flesh around the left side of his lips added to the thin, sneering image he projected when his helm was removed. Then Grimaldus saw the honour badge on his shoulder Guard. On the parchment were two crossed swords. The Symbol of their last Battle. His perfect Memory cast him back in time.

The Warband of White Scars had plagued the Sector for more than forty years but now the XXV. together with their partner Companies the XX and the XI had them cornered. Since the Great Crusade they fought together and now they brought more than 1000 Sons of Horus against around maybe 150 White Scars to bear. For more than three months they had eluded their wrath with the hit and run attacks they were so famous for. Now Grimaldus stood on the Bridge of the Lupercal's Wrath and looked on the Ship's of the White Scars around the 3 Planet of the System. They had found their Base. Grimaldus turned around as Captain Helbrecht stepped on the bridge together with High-Chaplain Mordred. Helbrecht wore the black Terminator of a Justaerin while Modred wore the same black painted Servoarmor and Skull Helmet like Grimaldus. He bowed to both of them. "My Lords the Traitors have held their Position above the Planet but we are detecting a flow of Dropships coming from the Planet."

Helbrecht's Face showed disgust and it looked like he wanted to spat on the Deck. "The Traitors prepare to flee." He looked to a human officer. "Give me a Com connection to Captain Almerich and Captain Ricard." The Human bowed. "Yes My Lord." Mere Minutes later the Images of the Captains in their Sea Green Armours appeared. Helbrecht was the most senior Captain of the three so he was first among equals. The three of them also represented aspects of the character of their Primarch Horus. Helbrecht represented the Primarchs determination and stubbornness. Captain Almerich was the Primarchs cool Mind and Captain Ricard had Horus diplomatic skills. "Brothers the Traitors prepare to flee we must stop them now or we will never catch them." Almerich looked back as some Mortal Crewmen told him something.

"My Auspex are reading Plasma emissions coming from the White Scars Ships. We must attack now." Now Ricard spoke for the first time. "I agree. Prepare the Justaerin for War." All Captains gave their agreement and Mordred turned his head to look Grimaldus on his unhelmed Face. "Come Grimaldus we will join the Boarding Party." With these words, he began to walk to the door to leave the Bridge and Grimaldus quickly followed him. As they walked through the Corridors of their ancient Flagship he mustered the Walls of the Corridor. During the Great Crusade the Lupercal's Fury was known as the Imperial Fists Battleship Tribune, but when Treachery struck the Master of the Tribune remained loyal and he managed to bring a warning to Terra. His name was now long lost to history, but he was still honoured by the Astartes of the XXV . During the Heresy, the Ship was first mothballed because it has suffered dearly under the strain of Warp Travel. But during the Scouring, the Tribune was finally repaired and gifted to the Sons of Horus where it received the Name Lupercal's Fury in memory to their slain Primarch. Since then the ship had proudly served the Emperor. Finally, they arrived in one of the four boarding Torpedo bays where about 80 Sons of Horus waited. 12 of them wore Terminator Armour. The Sergeant of the Terminators walked to them. His Cataphractii Pattern Terminator Armour hindering his Movement. "High-Chaplain it is an honour that you go to War with us." Mordred nodded in return as did Grimaldus. Before anybody of them could say more an Alarm sounded. "All selected Marines to the boarding Torpedoes!" Quickly they boarded the Torpedos together with a Breacher Command Squad was ordered to remain on the Ships so this time he was without their aid. Silently they watched on their Helmets displays how the Void Battle unfolded. A White Scars Strike Cruiser was breaking apart under the constant barrage of the Lupercal's Fury's Lances. But the Stalwart Defender Captain Almerichs Ship was taking a heavy beating from the Traitors Flagship a Vengeance Class Grand Cruiser. Identified as the "Soul Hunter" a ship lost to the Imperium more than 8.000 years ago. Grimaldus was listening to the Command Channel. "The Attack Craft have destroyed the Point Defence in the Sectors A-10 to D-1. Launching boarding Torpedos now." With a loud "clack" the Torpedo was started and despite the internal Dampers Grimaldus had to tense all his muscles to resist the pressure. The flight was relatively short only 3. Fleets attack Crafts lead by the Thunderhawks of the Sons of Horus held the few Attacks Crafts of the Traitors away from the Torpedos and so not a single Torpedo was lost. The Torpedo slammed into the Ship's Hull and drilled an part into the ship trough meters of armour. The front opened and the Marines poured into the Ship. The Breacher Squad formed a Perimeter and Mordred and Grimaldus slowly walked out of the Torpedo. In Mordreds Hands his Crozius and a Volkite Serpenta, in Grimaldus Hand his own Crozius and a Plasma Pistol. His first kill on this day was a mutant that had slipped through the Line of his brothers. It met his end when his Crozius turned the mutants head in a red paste. Then slammed further boarding Torpedos into the ship and one of them disgorged Terminators. Mordred and Grimaldus charged shouting their Battle-Cry. "Lupercal!" Their fellow Marines picked the Cry up and soon they smashed through the mortal servants of the Traitors. One of the Terminators carried a Heavy Flamer and bathed the Heretics in cleansing a short time it seemed nothing could stop them. Then they encountered the first heretic Astartes. They guarded an Entry to the Core hull. But instead of holding their Position they attacked with all the Speed they were famous for. The Terminator who was leading the Group didn't even get the Chance to react. A Plasma Bolt hit him in the Head. Everybody except the Terminators searched Cover, while the Terminator with the Assault Cannon filled the Corridor with bullets. The Traitor who still stood in the Corridor with his Plasma Gun was torn to shreds.

"Push forward!" Mordred lead the Charge as always. The remaining White Scars fired some Bolt shots, but the return Fire of the Sons of Horus pinned them down. Grimaldus killed the first Traitor whit a straight shoot through the belly. Then he brought his Crozius down on the Traitors Head, just to be sure. In just a few heartbeats the Traitors were wiped out. Grimaldus looked at their casualties. Except for the Terminator they hadn't lost anymore Marines.

They destroyed the Bulkhead to the Core Hull with a Melta Charge and proceeded to the bridge. There were no more Traitor Marines until they reached the Bridge doors. 47 Sons of Jagathai Khan stood there. Power Weapons drawn, Bolters aimed and they didn't wasted time. The first Salvo killed three Breacher Marines who were to bring their Shields up in Time. But now the Sons of Horus fired everything they had. The Breacher fired controlled Bursts with their Bolters, while the Terminators stomped forward covered by the fire from their Assault Cannon armed Squadmate. As soon as the Terminators crashed into the Heretics line, Mordred charged. "Sons of Horus for the Emperor and the Primarch!" Grimaldus followed his Master closely. A White Scar aimed his Bolter at his Head but Grimaldus brought his Crozius down on the Weapon and destroyed it completely. Grimaldus proceeded by ramming the Hilt of his Weapon in the Traitors Face. The Traitors Helmet buckled and he slammed his Fist in Grimaldus belly and forced him Back, then he tore his Helmet off and exposed a scarred, tattooed Face. "A Son of the dead Warmaster. How amusing! I saw your Father dye back then on Terra. You are weak as he was." Grimaldus roared as he jumped on the Heretic. He has lost control over his temper. The first Strike was parried by the White Scars Power Sword, but the second was too fast for the Traitor and his left leg was shattered. Grimaldus stood over the Heretic and aimed his Plasma Pistol directly on his head. "Any last Words, traitorous Scum." The fallen Astartes spat some Blood. "Hail Chaos." Then his Head disappeared in miniature Sun. Grimaldus looked up and saw the Carnage. Almost all Members of their Boarding Party lied on the ground. Breacher, Tacticals and Terminators lied next to the Traitors. Mordred was no were to see, but Grimaldus heard battle noise from the Bridge. So he walked through the melted Door on the Bridge. There Mordred was fighting the Warbands Leader, while the last three Justaerin fought some sort of Mutant. Grimaldus sprinted to the Mutant thing and lifted his Crozius for a decisive Attack when a Tentacle wrapped around his Hand and began to squeeze. With a roar of fury, he shot the Tentacle with his Plasma Pistol. At this Moment the Terminator Sergeant brought his Power Axt down on the Mutants Head and killed it. Grimaldus turned and his Eyes widened in Shock. Mordred was laying on the Ground his Front a single big wound, his enemy was also laying on the Ground his Head completely gone.

Grimaldus closed his Eyes for a Moment and was back on the Lupercals Fury. "Brother, have you heard what I said?" Grimaldus shook his Head. "Sorry Brother I was with my thought's away." Artarion smiled. "The Navigator said, that we should arrive in about an Hour. The War on Armageddon will start soon."

AN: I thank Zahariel that he permitted me to set this piece into the Roboutian Heresy. Ave Imperator


	2. Chapter 2

3rd War for Armageddon

I do not own the Warhammer 40000 nor any of its characters. They belong to Games Workshop

Chapter 2: Preparations

Few ships in the Imperium of Man matched the lethal grandeur of the Lupercal's Fury. Some ships sailed the heavens like the seaborne vessels of ancient Terra, journeying between the stars with solemnity and measured grace. The Lupercal's Fury was not one of these. Its engines raged, streaming plasma contrails in their wake as they powered the vessel from world to world in an echo of the Emperors Great Crusade. And the Fury was not alone. The Battle Barges Stalwart Defender and Night's Vigil burned their engines hard, striving to keep pace and fall into lance formation with their Flagship. In the wake of these behemoths of war, a wing of support frigates formed the rest of the lance. Seven in total, each of these faster interceptor vessels powered forward with less of a struggle to maintain formation with the Lupercal's Fury.

The ship burst back into reality, trailing discoloured warp-smog from its protesting Geller Field, the brilliance of its plasma drives flaring with gaseous leakage that misted around the void shield of the vessels which slammed back into realspace just behind.

Ahead of them lay an ashen globe, darkened by unclean cloud cover, strangely at peace despite the turmoil surrounding it.

If one were to look into the void around the bitter, punished world of Armageddon, one would see a thriving subsector of imperial space where even the most prosperous hive planets bore more than their fair share of slowly-healing wounds. The hives of Armageddon reached into the pollution-rich cloud cover that wreathed the world in perpetual twilight. No wildlife howled on Armageddon. No beasts stalked their prey outside the ever-growing hive-cities. The call of the wild was the rattle and clank of ten thousand ammunition manufactories that never halted production. The stalking of animals was the grinding of tank treads across the world's rockcrete surfaces, awaiting transport into the sky to serve in a hundred and more distant conflicts.

It was a world devoted to war in every way imaginable, made bitter by the scars of the past soured by the wounds gouged into its face by humanity's enemies. Armageddon always rebuilt after each devastation, but it was never permitted to forget.

The first and foremost reminder of the last war, the almighty Second War that saw billions dead, was a deep space installation named for one of the Emperor's Angels of Death.

Deradelon they called it.

It was from there that the mortals of Armageddon stared into the blackness of space, watching, praying that nothing stared back. For fifty-seven years, those prayers had been answered.

But no longer. Imperial tacticians already had reliable figures from early engagements that confirmed the greenskin fleet bearing down on Armageddon as the largest xenos invasion force in the history of the segmentum. As the alien fleets closed around the system, Imperial reinforcements raced to break the blockade sector and land their troops on Armageddon before the invasion fleet arrived in the heavens above the doomed world.

In Orbit about the planet are hundreds of ships. Many of whom bear the livery of the Legiones Astartes. Emperors Children, World Eaters, Alpha Legion, Night Lord, Sons of Horus, Iron Warriors, Word Bearers and even a Strike Cruiser of the Thousand Sons. Grimaldus once again stood on the Fury's bridge and watched the gathered Fleet through the Windows. Captain Helbrecht sat on his Command Throne clad in his Artificer Armour. One of the Legion Serves looked up from his screen. "My Lord we are hailed by the Sword of Oldon." Grimaldus looked at Helbrecht. "Isn't the Sword of Oldon the ship of the XLI(41)Company?"

Helbrecht stood up and nodded to the Servant. "Open a Link." The Mortal bowed and worked for a few seconds on his consol. Then a hololithic Picture appeared. But it didn't showed Captain Verant Ortys but someone else in the Sea Green of the Sons of Horus. "Captain Helbrecht it is good to see you. "

Helbrecht remained silent for some time. "I expected to speak with Captain Ortys. Who are you?"

The other Son of the first Warmaster unlocked his Helmet and put it away. "I am Captain Carab Culln chosen successor of Captain Ortys and you just in time for the council of the Sons of Horus where we choose our leader for the coming war."

Hebrecht looked confused. "No Mournival-Lord is in the System. We gather in the thousand for the first time in decades and no Lord of the Legion is leading us?"

Helbrecht looked on the projection as Culln nodded and spoke again. "I must once again demand that you get aboard my ship. All other Captain's currently in System are already on board.

Helbrecht looked enraged and had a dangerous look on his fellow Captain. "I and my Brother-Captains will arrive shortly." With these words, he severed the connection and began to walk. "Come with me Grimaldus." The High-Chaplain didn't said anything and just followed his Lord.

The Legion Servant lead Helbrecht, Rickard, Almerich and Grimaldus into the Strategium where the meeting was held. There were 13 other Captains and countless lesser Astartes inside. Captain Culln sitting on a Throne in the middle of the Amphitheatre a place that belonged to him as the Lord of the Battle Barge. Helbrecht took their places and were immediately greeted by the other Sons of Horus. Grimaldus standing on the Wall where the other Chaplains stood ready to intervene should the tempers of the Astartes run too hot. The highest ranking Chaplain on board took a step into the Light and began to speak. "We are gathered here to choose the one who will lead the efforts of the Sons of Horus in absence of one of the Mournival-Lords. So cast your votes honoured Captain's."

An old Captain stood up. "I nominated Captain Helbrech of the to lead us in this glorious war." Many agreed and Helbrecht nodded in thanks to his fellow Captain.

But before the voiced died down another Captain stood. "Helbrecht is a very experienced leader and a worthy son of Horus, but we need someone dynamic and so i nominate Captain Culln." That moment followed two hours of furious argument. The Chaplains standing silent knowing that as soon as the battle would begin the Men would fight without problems. After the votes, who brought no solution. The Chaplains stepped in. Grimaldus and Cullns Chaplain stepped forward in unison and spoke. "As the sacred traditions of our Legion demand, the Matter that can't be solved by words must be solved by the Blade." The the Captains stripped of their Armors and they received a blade. Grimaldus was handing Helbrecht the Blade. "Remember Captain it is only a fight to the first Blood. Keep your rage in check." The fight was over in mere minutes. Helbrecht disarmed Culln and cut a small wound. Quickly Grimaldus stepped between the two. "The matter is decided the war effort of the Sons of Horus in the Armageddon-System will be lead by Captain Helbrecht." His fellow Marines answered in a loud choir. "For the Emperor! For Lupercal! For Honor!"

Grimaldus returned with his Lord back to the Lupercals Fury to prepare for War.

My brother's names are Artarion, Priamus, Cador, Nerovar and Bastilan. These are the Warriors that have waged war beside me for decades. I watch them, each in turn, as we make ready for planetfall. Our arming chamber is a cell devoid of decoration, bare of sentiment, alive now with the methodical movements of dead-minded servitors machining our armour into place. The chamber is thick with the scholarly scent of fresh vellum from our armour scrolls, coppery oils from our ritually-cleansed weapons, and the ever-present cloying salty reek of sweating servitors.

I flex my arm, feeling my war-plate's false muscles of cable and fibre buzz with smooth vibration at the cycle of motion. Papyrus scrolls are draped over the angles of my armour, their delicate runic lettering listing the details of battles I could never forget. My fingers twitch as my gauntlet locks into place. That was not intentional – a nerve-spasm, a pain response. An invasive but familiar coldness settles over my forearm as my gauntlets neural linkage spike sinks into my wrist to bond with the bones and true muscle there.

My brothers go through the same rituals of checking and rechecking. A curious sense of unease descends upon me, but I refuse to give it voice. I watch them now because i believe this is the last time we will go through this ritual together. I will not be the only one to die upon Armageddon. Artarion, Priamus, Cador, Nerovar and Bastilan. We are the Warriors of Squad Grimaldus. Within his veins, Cador carries the blessed blood of Horus Lupercal with what seems like weary honour. His face is shattered and his body tormented – now half-bionic due to untreatable wounds – but he remains defiant, even indefatigable. He is older than I, older by far. His decades within the Justaarin are behind him now; he was released with all honour when his advancing age and increasing bionics left him less than the exemplar he had been before. Priamus is the rising sun to Cador's dusk. He is aware of his skills in the unsubtle and undignified way of many young warriors. Without even the ghost of humility, his roars of triumph on the battlefield sound like cries for attention, a braggart's declarations. A blademaster, he calls himself. Yet he is not mistaken. Artarion is ... Artarion. My shadow, just as I am his. It is rare among our numbers for any proud son of Chtonia to lay aside personal glory, yet Artarion is the one who carries my banner into battle. He has joked more times than I care to remember that he does so only to provide the enemy with a target lock on my location. For all his great courage, he is not a man blessed with a skilful sense of humour. The mangling wound that fouled his face was a sniper shot meant for me. I carry that knowledge with me each time we go to war. Nerovar is the newest among us. He holds the dubious honour of being the only Warrior I chose to stand with me, while all other was appointed to fight by my side. The Squad required the presence of an Apothecary. In the trials, only Nerovar impressed the rest of us with his quiet endurance. He labours now over his arm-mounted narthecium, blue eyes narrowed as he tests the flickering snap of surgical blades and cutting lasers. A sickening clack! sounds as he fires his reductor. The giver of a merciful death, the extractor of gene-seed – its impaling component snaps from its housing, then retracts with sinister slowness. Bastilan is last, Bastilan, always the best and least of us all. A leader but not a commander – a inspiring presence, but not a strategist – forever a sergeant, never fated to rise as a Captain or Commander. He has always said his role as such is all he desires. I hope he speaks the truth, for if he is deceiving us, he hides the lie well behind his dark eyes.

The skies over Armageddon were rich and thick with a sick, greyish-yellow cast. Sulphurous cloud cover was nothing new to the population, with their hive walls treated and shielded against the storm seasons downpours of acid rain.

Around each hive-city across the planet's surface, vast landing fields were cleared, either hurriedly paved with rockcrete or simply ground flat under the treads of hundreds of landscaper trucks. Around Hades Hive, rain scythed down onto the cleared areas and sparked off the dense heat-shimmer of the city's protective void shields. Across the world, the heavens were in turmoil, weather patterns ravaged by the atmospheric disturbance caused by countless ships breaking cloud cover every day.

Yet at Hades Hive, the storms were especially fierce. Hundreds of troop carriers, their paint already melted to reveal bare, dull metal in places, endured the rainfall as they rested on the landing fields. Some were disgorging columns of men into the hastily-erected campsites that were spreading across the wastelands between the hives, while others sat in silence, awaiting clearance to return to orbit. Hades itself was little more than industrial scar tissue blighting Armageddon's face. Despite efforts to repair the city after the last war over half a century before, it still bore a ragged share of memories. Toppled Spires, broken Domes, shattered Cathedrals – this was the Skyline after the death of a hive.

A Stormbird lead a Squadron of smaller Thunderhawks as they pierced the cloud cover. To those manning the battlements of Hades, they were a flock of crows winging down from the darkening sky. Major Mordechai Ryken scanned the gunships through his magnoculars. After several seconds of zoom-blur, green reticules locked on the streaking avian hulls and transcribed an analysis in dim white text alongside the image. Ryken lowered the viewfinder scope. He led it to hang from the leather cord and watched as his men worked on an Anti-Aircraft Turret some way down the battlements. "Sir?" one of them voxed. Ryken knew who it was despite the shapeless overcoats they all wore. Only one of them was female. "What is it, Vantine?" "Those are Legiones Astartes gunships aren't they?" "Goods eyes." And they were, at that. Vantine would've made a sniper a long time ago if she could aim worth a damn. Alas, there was more to sniping than seeing. "Which one?" she pressed. "Does it matter? Legiones Astartes are Legiones Astartes. Reinforcements are Reinforcements." "Yes but which one?" "Sons of Horus." Ryken took a breath, tonguing a score cut on his lips as he watched the fleet of Drop Ships touching down in the distance. "Hundreds of them"

An Imperial Guard Column rolled out from Hades to meet the newest arrivals. A command Chimera, flying no shortage of impressive flags, led six Angron battle tanks, their collective passage chewing into the newly laid rockcrete. Bulky troop landers were still setting down elsewhere on the landing field, the wash from their engines blasting wind and gritty dust in all directions, but General Kurov of the Armageddon Steel Legion did not make a personal appearance to greet just anyone. Despite his advancing age, Kurov cut a straight-backed figure in his grimy uniform of ochre fatigues and black webbing, with flack paddling on the torso. Here was the man that had lead the Council of Armageddon for decades, and earned the respect of his people by wading knee-deep in the sulphur marshes and bracken forests after the last war, hunting xenos survivors in the infamous ork hunter platoons. He stomped down the ramp, setting his cap to guard his eyes against the heatless, yet annoyingly bright, afternoon sunlight. Kurov lead them to the waiting Transports, each of which was still emitting a dull machine-whine as their boosters cycled into inactivity. Eighteen Thunderhawks and one Stormbird. Kurov knew that from the initial auspex report as the Sons of Horus had landed. They sat now in organised unmoving ranks, ramps withdrawn and bulkheads sealed. Their undersides, blunt noses and wing edges still showed a glimmer of cooling heat shields with the after-effects of planetfall. Three Legionnaires Astartes stood before the gunship fleet, still as statues, with the Stormbird standing behind them giving a hint from which vessel they had disembarked from. As he looked upon them two disengaged their helmets. One in the normal sea green of Sons of Horus the other in an arterial Red marking him as a Champion. The last of them made no move the continued staring on Kurov through ruby eye lenses. "Are you Kurov?" one of the Legionnaires demanded. "I am." The general replied. "It is my h-" In unison, the ramps of the first rank of dropships opened and out marched ranks of Terminators and Warriors in regular Power Armour forming a disciplined rank. Kurov took an involuntary step back, not out of fear but surprise. The Astartes stood there, Banners held high and completely silent. Now the three officers moved drawing their weapons and kneeling down. The Space Marines weapons went live in a humming chorus of wakening power cells. Lightning, controlled and rippling, coated the killing edges of the three artefacts. The first was a giant clad in armour of gold against green, the surface of his war-plate inscribed with retellings of his deeds in miniscule Gothic Runes, as well as trinkets, trophies and honour badges of red wax seals and papyrus strips. He clutched a two-handed sword, its blade longer than Kurov was tall, and drove its point into the ground. The Warrior's Face was shaped by the wars he had fought-square-jawed, scarred, blunt-featured and expressionless. The second Astartes, clad in plainer green war-plate, wore a cloak of dark weave and scarlet lining. His sword in no way matched the grandeur of the firsts Warrior's relict, but the long blade of darkened iron was no less lethal for its simplicity. This Warrior's Face lacked the expressionless ease of the first. He fought not to sneer as he drove the tip of his blade into the ground. And the last, the Astartes still wearing his helm, carried no blade. The rockcrete beneath their feet shivered slightly under the pounding of his war-mace.

"We are the Emperors Crusaders," the giant in the ornate Armour intoned. "We are the warriors of the Eternal Crusade and the sons of Horus Lupercal. I am Helbrecht, chosen Commander of all the Sons of Horus Forces in System. With me is Bayard Champion of my Company and Grimaldus, High-Chaplain. At their names both Astartes nodded in turn. Helbrecht continued his voice a growled drawl. "Aboard our Vessels in Orbit are more than 15.000 Sons of Horus. We come to offer you our blades, our service and the lives of Lupercals Sons. Kurov stood in silence. 15.000 Astartes since the Crusade of Macharius hadn't the Sons of Horus gathered in such strength in one Place of War. He had greeted all commanders from the other Legions in recent weeks, but none had brought such strength with them. "Commander," the general said at last. "There is a war council forming tonight. You and your warriors are welcome there." "It will be done," the Commander said. "I'm glad to hear it," Kurov replied. "Welcome to Armageddon."


	3. Chapter 3

3rd War for Armageddon

I do not own the Warhammer 40000 nor any of its characters. They belong to Games Workshop

3rd Chapter:

Ryken was not smiling. He'd been a lifelong believer in not shooting the messenger, but today that tradition was in danger of expiring. Behind him loomed an anti-air turret, blanketing them all in its shadow and shielding them from the dim glare of the morning sun. A Squad of his men worked on this turret, as they had worked on countless others along the walls in the space of the last two months. It was almost operational. They weren't techs, by any means, but they knew the basic maintenance rites and calibration rituals.  
"One minute to test fire," Vantine said, her voice muffled by her rebreather mask. And that was when the messenger showed up. It was also when Ryken stopped smiling, despite the fact the messenger was easy on the eyes, as over-starched, narrowed-eyed tactica types went. "I want these orders rechecked," he demanded – calmly, but a demand nevertheless. "With all due respect, sir," the messenger straightened her own ochre uniform, "these orders come from the Old Man himself. He's reorganising the disposition of all our forces, and the Steel Legion are honoured to be first in that reappraisal." The words stole Ryken's desire to argue. So it was true, then. The Old Man was back.  
"But Helsreach is half a continent away", he tried. "We've been working on the Hades wall-guns for months."  
"Thirty seconds to test-fire", Vantine called. The messenger, whose name was Cyria Tyro, wasn't smiling either. In her position as adjutant quintus to General Kurnov, grunts and plebeians were forever questioning the orders she relayed, as if she would ever dare alter a single word of the General's instructions. But in his case she couldn't show her distaste for Ryken, for he was a scion of a rich and influential military family. "I have long been entrusted with certain aspects of the general's plan's", Tyro lied, "that frontliners such as yourself are only now being made aware of. I apologize if this is a surprise to you, major, but orders are orders. And these orders come with the highest mandate imaginable."  
"Are we not even going to defend the damn hive?" At that moment, Vantine test-fired the turret. The floor beneath their feet shook as four cannon barrels blared their anger up the empty sky. Ryken swore, thought it was drowned out in the ear-ringing thunder of the gun's echo. Tyro also swore, though unlike Ryken's general lament, hers was aimed at Vantine the gun crew. The Major was close the yelling over the ache in his ears. It was fading, but not fast. "I said, are we not defending the damn hive ?!"  
"You are not," Tyro almost pouted, her mouth compressed in restrained irritation. "You are going to Helsreach with your regiment. Your transports leave tonight. All of the 101st Steel Legion is to be aboard and ready for transport by sunset in six point five hours." Ryken paused. Six and a half hours to get 8000 men and woman into heavy lifter transports, gunships and land trains. It was the kind of bad news that made the major feel the need to be overwhelmingly honest.  
"Colonel Sarren will be furious." "Colonel Sarren has dealt with his assignment with grace and solemn devotion to his duty. Your commanding officer still has much to teach you in that regards, I see." "Cute. Now tell me why it's us being sent all the way to Helsreach. I thought Insan and the 121st were kings of that shitpile." "Colonel Insan had a terminal failure of his augmetic heart infusers this morning. His second officer requested Sarren by name, and General Kurov agreed."  
"That old bastard finally dead? That will teach him to lay off the garage brewed sauce. Ha! All those expensive augmetics he had done, and he keels over six months later. I like that. That's delicious." "Major! Some respect, if you please." Ryken frowned. "I don't like you," he told Tyro. "How grievous," the general's assistant replied, and there was no mistaking the dark, unamused scowl on her face. "For you have been appointed a liaison to aid in dealings with the Legiones Astartes and the conscripted militia." She looked as if she'd eaten something sour and it was still wriggling on her tongue. "So... I will be coming with you." A moment of curious kinship passed between them, almost going unspoken. They were being exiled to the same place, after all. Their eyes met in that moment, and the foundations of something like a reluctant friendship almost bloomed between them. It was broken when Ryken walked away. "I still don't like you."

I stand in front of the main entrance of the hall where the overall strategy of the war will be decided and speak with the highest ranking Chaplains of the other Legions. There were Leonidas of the Emperor's Children, Konstantinus of the Iron Warriors, Ivanus Enkomi of the World Eaters, Arkalon of the Night Lords, Ashkanez of the Word Bearers, Dragan of the Death Guard and Dynat Crowbane of the Alpha Legion his second Name awarded after slaying two Raven Guard Purebloods. They spoke over the Campaigns they had recently fought. Right now Dragan was speaking. "We were on the Way to the Borders of the Imperium, when we received the Call from Armageddon." He was cut off when a Herald announces the start of the Conclave. I say goodbye to my fellow Chaplains and walk into the Hall searching for my Liege.  
I find him quickly standing in front of the other Officers of the first Warmasters Son's. I place myself and wait for the first person to speak. Quickly the hall falls silent. "Hades Hive will not survive the first week." The man speaking is ancient, and he looks every hour of his age. What keeps him on his feet is a mixture of minimal rejuvenate chem.-surgeries, crude bionics, and faith in the Emperor founded in hatred for the enemies of men. I liked him the moment my visor's targeting reticules locked on to him. Both piety and hate echo in his every word.  
He should not hold rank here – not to the degree he does. He is merely a commissar in the Imperial Guard, and such a title does not tend to make generals, colonels, Legiones Astartes Captains and even Chapter Masters remain in polite silence when it comes to tactical planning. Yet to the humans at this war council and the citizens of Armageddon, he is the Old Man, a beloved hero of the Second War fifty-seven years ago. Not just a hero. The hero.  
His name is Sebastian Yarrick. Even we Legiones Astartes must respect that name. And when he tells us all that Hades Hive will be destroyed within a matter of days, a hundred Imperial commanders, human and Legiones Astartes, hang on his every word.  
I am one of them. This will be my first true command. Commissar Sebastian Yarrick leans over the edge of a hololithic display table. With his remaining hand – the other arm is nothing but a stump – he keys in coordinates on the numeric datapad and the hololith projection of Hades Hive widens with flickering impatience to display both of the planet's hemisphere in insignificant detail. The Old Man, a gaunt and wizened human of sharp features and skeletally – obvious facial bones, gestures to the blip on the map that represents Hades Hive and its surrounding territories. Wastelands, in the main. "Six decades ago", he says, "the Great Enemy met his defeat at Hades. Our defences here was what won us that war."  
There are general murmurs of assent. The commissar's voice carries around the expansive chamber through floating skull drones equipped with vox-speakers where their jaws had once been. I am surrounded by the familiar sound of active power armour, though some of them wear the familiar sea green of the Sons of Horus many more do not. Standing to my left at a respectful distance, his face raggedly proud around extensive bionics, is Chapter Master Dreagher of the (21) of the World Eaters Legion. He is flanked by other Officers in the White and Blue of Angron's Sons. A few meters to the left of them stands Lord Commander Hadrian of the Emperor's Children his face hidden behind his Helmet. Then there are even a few Sons of Magnus. They may be few, but Grimaldus almost felt the barely contained Power of their Psionic Arts. Grimaldus thoughts were abruptly interrupted. "Why?" someone asks. His voice is low, too low to be human, and carries over the chamber without the need of vox-amplification. A hundred heads turn to regard a Legiones Astartes Officer in the colours of the proud Sons of Perturabo the Iron Warriors. "We recognise Warsmith Amaras. Commander of the Iron Warriors contingence," an Imperial Herald announced from his positions at Yarrick's side, smoothing the formal blue robes of his office. He bangs the butt of his staff on the ground three times.  
Amaras nods in thanks and fixes Yarricks with his unblinking gaze. "Why would the greenskin warlord simply annihilate the greatest battlefield of the last war? And even if he tried it me and my men will create a bulwark in this Hive even my father would struggle to break." Murmurs of agreement ripple throughout the gathered commanders. Especially the Iron Warriors and the Human Officers of more Siege oriented regiments. Emboldened, Amaras smiled at Yarrick. "No" another voice replies. This one is distorted into a vox-borne snarl, filtered through a helmet's speakers. I swallow as the herald bangs the staff another three times. I had not realised I'd spoken out loud. "We recognise Brother-Chaplain Grimaldus," he calls out. "High-Chaplain of the Sons of Horus."

Grimaldus shook his head at the gathered commanders. Over a hundred, human and Legiones Astartes, all standing around the huge table in this converted auditorium once used for whatever dreary theatre performances occurred on a manufactory world. A riot of colours, heraldry, symbols of unity, varied uniforms, regimental designations and iconography. General Kurov stood at the commissar's shoulder, deferring to the Old Man in all things. "The xenos do not think as we do", Grimaldus said. "The greenskins do not come to Armageddon for vengeance, or to seek to bleed us for the defeats they have suffered at Imperial Hands in the past. They come for the pleasure of violence." Yarrick, a skeleton wreathed in pale flesh and dark uniform, watched them in silence, when a third voice appeared. "I agree with High-Chaplain Grimaldus." Once again the Herald banged his staff on the ground and spoke. "We recognise Lieutenant-Commander Braxon of the Death Guard. Leader of the Death Guard contingent and current wielder of Lantern." The Terminator Armour of the Son of Barbarus showed not only the sigile of the Destroyers, but also his helmet marked him as one of the ancients. A Death Guard who had served the Imperium for more than a 1000 Terran years. "My Legion fought the Greenskins often enough to understand more of their crude minds, than many of you. They come to this planet not for a grand strategy, but to smash their heads against ours until either they fall or We do. So if we marshal here they will simply bombard us until only dust remains. So Warsmith Amaras if you want to waist your men's your life go ahead, but the Death Guard is here to win this war." Amaras pounded his fist onto the table and pointed first at Grimaldus and then Braxon. For a moment of deathly calm, Grimaldus considered drawing his Plasma Pistol and slaying the Warsmith where he stood. Until Chaplain Konstantinus walked beside Amaras and spoke a few calming words to his Officer. Amaras visible calmed down and stepped back from the table. Grimaldus looked his fellow Chaplains Skull-Helmet and inclined his head in thanks.

After several moments Commissar Yarrick resumed speaking. "Hades will not survive the first week," he said again, this time shaking his head. "We must abandon the hive and spread the forces here to other bastions of strength. This is not the Second War. What is coming in-system now far exceeds what has laid waste to the planet before. The other hives must be reinforced a thousand times over." He took a moment to clear his throat, and a cough stole over him, dry and hoarse. When it subsided, the Old Man smiled without even the ghost of humour.  
"Hades will burn. We must make our stand elsewhere." At his cue, General Kurov stepped forward with a data-slate. "We come to the division of command." He took a breath and pressed on. "The fleet that will besiege Armageddon is too vast to repel."  
A chorus of jeers rose. Kurov rode them out. Grimaldus, Helbrecht and Bayard were among those that remained absolutely silent. "Hear me, friends and brothers," Kurov sighted. "And hear me well. Those of you who insist this war will be anything more than a conflict of bitter attrition are deceiving yourself. At current estimates we have 60.000 Space Marines in the Armageddon Sub-sector most of them in this System, and at least forty times this numbers in imperial Guard on Armageddon alone. And it will still not be enough to secure a clean victory. At our best estimations, Battlefleet Armageddon, the orbital defences, and the Legiones Astartes fleets remaining in the void will be able to deny the enemy landing for nine days. These are our best estimates."  
"And the worst?" asked a Legiones Astartes officer in the colours of the Night Lords.  
"Four days," the Old Man said through his grim smile. Silence descended again. Kurov didn't wasted it. "Admiral Parol of Battlefleet Armageddon has outlined his plan and uploaded it to the tactical network for all commanders to review. Once the orbital war, be it four or five days, our fleets will break from the planet in a fighting withdrawal. From then on, Armageddon will be defenceless beyond what is already entrenched on the surface. The orks will be free to land wherever they choose to. Admiral Parol will lead the remaining Naval Ships of the fleet in repeated guerrilla strikes supported by the Night Lords against the invader's vessels still in orbit."  
"Who will lead the Legiones Astartes vessels?" Warsmith Amaras spoke up again. There was another pause before Commissar nodded to a yellow and gold clad group of Warriors across the table."Given his seniority and the expertise of his Legion, Lord-Commander Hadrian of the Emperor's Children will take overall command of the gathered Legiones Astartes Fleet, but Lord-Commander Hadrian has demanded that the bulk of the Emperors Children will be deployed on Planet, therefore Lord Helbrecht and his Sons of Horus will help man the Fleet with Space Marines."  
"We are to remain in Orbit?" Grimaldus leaned closer to his commander and voiced the question. The Captain didn't take his eyes from Yarrick. "The Emperors Children are the obvious choice for the overall command, and we have the greatest number of Marines in System." The Chaplain looked across the chamber, at the various leaders and officers of a hundred different forces.  
I was wrong, he thought. I will not die in futility on this world. Eagerness, hot and urgent, flushed through his system, as real and vital as a flood of adrenaline gushing through his two hearts. "The Lupercal's Fury will plunge like a lance into the core of their fleet. Captain, we can slaughter the greenskin tyrant before he even sets foot on the world below us." Helbrecht lifted his gaze from the ancient commissar as his Chaplain spoke. He turned to Grimaldus, his dark eyes piercing the other knight's skull mask with their intensity.  
"I have already spoken with the other marshals, my brother. We must leave one more contingent on the surface. I will lead our brothers who will fight in Orbit. Amalrich and Richard will lead their force into the Ash Wastes, where they will fight together with the Death Guard. All that remains is a single force, to defend one of the hive cities that yet remains ungarrisoned by Legiones Astartes. Grimaldus shook his head. "That is not our duty, my liege. Both Amalrich and Ricard have a host of honours inscribed upon their armour. They will not accept to stay behind on this ball of dirt, while their brothers fight a glorious war in the void. You would shame them" "And yet", Helbrecht was implacable, his features set in stone, "a commander must remain." "Don't." The Warriors blood ran cold. "Don't do this."  
"It is already done." "No," he said, and meant it with every fibre of his being. "No." "This is not the time. The decision is made, Grimaldus. I know you, as I knew Mordred. You will not refuse this honour." Inside Grimaldus fought a battle to contain his Chtonian fury and he was barely able too and bowed to his Lord. "As you wish my Liege." The rest of the meeting Grimaldus was trying to contain his temper, and he barely succeeds.


	4. Chapter 4

3rd War for Armageddon

I do not own the Warhammer 40000 nor any of its characters. They belong to Games Workshop

Grimaldus was alone in his chamber on board of the _Lupercals Fury_ and meditated to calm his temper. It was then that Captain Helbrecht entered his simple chamber. "My Lord," Grimaldus said while bowing. "How can I serve?" Helbrecht disengaged his helmet and handed him a Data-slate. "I know that you consider the duty of defending Helsreach beneath you, but notheles it must be done. On this Data-slate are all Forces of the Sons of Horus in System currently unassigned. You will choose a Task Force of 200 of your Brothers to defend the Hive. May the Spirit of the Primarch be with you Grimaldus." He extended his Arm in a Warrior's salute and Grimaldus took it without hesitation. "And with you Helbrecht." As soon as Helbrecht had left Grimaldus began consulting the Data-slate once again filled with purpose.

Their destination was called, with bleakness so typical of this world, Healsreach.

"By the Throne", Artarion swore with feeling. "Now that's a sight."  
"This is...huge", Nerovar whispered. The ten gunships five Thunderhawks, one Stormbird and four Stormtalon's tore across the sulphurous sky, parting sick yellow clouds that drifted apart in their wake. From the cockpit of the Stormbird, six Sons watched the expensive city below.  
And _Expansive_ barely covered it.  
The ten gunships, boosters howling, veered in graceful union around one of the tallest industrial spire. It was slate-grey, belching thick smoke into the dirty sky, merely one of hundreds.  
A wing of escorts, small and manoeuvrable Lighting-pattern air superiority fighters, coasted alongside the Legiones Astartes Flyers. They were neither welcome nor unwelcome, merely ignored.  
"We cannot be the only Legiones Astartes strength sent to this city", Nerovar removed his white helmet with a hiss of venting air pressure and stared with naked eyes at the metropolis flashing beneath. "How can we hold this alone?"  
"We will not be alone," Sergeant Bastilan said. "The Guard is with us. And militia forces."  
"Humans", Priamus sneered.  
"The Legio Mortis has landed to the east of the city", Bastilan said to the swordsman. "Titans my brother and as a bonus old ally's of our legion. I don't see you sneering at that."  
Priamus didn't answer. But nor did he agree.  
"What is that?" The Warriors leaned forward at their leaders words. Grimaldus gestured down at a vast stretch of rockcreted roadway, wide enough to accommodate the landing of a bulk cruiser or a wallowing Imperial Guard troop carrier.  
"A highway, sir", the pilot said. He checked his instruments. "Hel's Highway."  
Grimaldus was silent for several moments, just watching the colossal road and the thousands upon thousands of conveyances making their way along it in both directions.  
"This roadway splits the city like a spine. I see hundreds of capillary roads and byways leading from it."  
"So?" Priamus asked, his tone indicating just how little he cared about the answer.  
"So", Grimaldus turned back to the squad, "whoever holds Hel's Highway holds the beating heart of the city in their hands. They will have unprecedented, unstoppable ability to manoeuvre troops and armour. Even Titans will move faster, at perhaps twice the speed than if they had to stalk through hive towers and city blocks."  
Nerovar shook his head. He was the only one without his helmet covering his features. Insofar as it was possible for a Legionary to look uncertain, he was doing so now.  
"High-Chaplain." He spoke Grimaldus's new title with hesitancy. "How can we defend... all _this_? An endless road that leads into a thousand others."  
"With blade and bolter", Grimaldus said. "With fury and fire."  
Grimaldus knew he sounded not quite like himself, but being left behind still gnawed at his core.

The Astartes flyers touched down on a landing pad that was clearly designed for freight use. Cranes moved and servitors droned out of their way as the gunships came down in a hovering shower of engine wash and heat shimmer.  
Ramps clanged onto the landing pads surface and the ten gunships disgorged their living cargo – two hundred Sons of Horus in orderly ranks, most of them in normal Power Armour, but two Squads wore the black Terminator Armour of the Legions Elite and leading them was the hulking form of the Ancient Sevarin a Dreadnought of the Contemptor-Class. Quickly they formed a formation before their transports.  
Watching this display. And desperately trying not to show how impressed he felt was Colonel Sarren of the Armageddon 101st Steel Legion. He stood with his hands clasped together, fingers interlaced, over his not inconsiderable stomach. Flanking him were a dozen men, some soldiers, some civilians, and all nervous- to varying degrees – about the 200 giants in sea-green armour forming up before them.  
He cleared his throat, checked the buttons on his ochre greatcoat were fastened in correct order, and marched to the giants.  
One of the giants, wearing a helmet shaped into a grinning skull mask of shining silver and steel, stepped forward to meet the colonel. With him came five other warriors, carrying swords and massive bolters, but for one who bore a towering standard. Upon the banner, which waved lazily in the dull breeze, a scene of red and black depicted the skull-helmed Marine bathed in the golden purity of a flaming Aquila overhead.  
"I am Grimaldus", the first Son of Horus said, his gem-like eye lenses staring down at the portly colonel. "Commander of Task Force Helsreach."  
The colonel drew breath to make his own greeting, when the 200 Sons of Horus in formation cried out a chant in skin-crawling unity.  
" _Imperator Vult!"_  
Sarren glanced at the ranks of Space Marines, formed up in ten ranks of twenty warriors, overshadowed by Ancient Sevarin. None of them seemed to have moved, despite their cry in High Gothic: _The Emperor wills it._  
"I am Colonel Sarren of the 101st Steel Legion, and overall commander of the Imperial Guard forces defending the hive." He offered a hand to the towering warrior, and turned the gesture quite smartly into a salute when it became clear the Marine was not going to shake hands.  
Muted clicks could be heard every few seconds from the helms of the Warriors standing closest to him. Sarren knew full well they were speaking with each other over a shared vox-channel. He didn't like it, not at all.  
"Who are these others" the first Warrior asked. With a war maul of brutal size and weight, he gestured to Sarren's staff arrayed in a loose crescent behind the colonel. "I would meet every commander of this hive, if they are present."  
"They are present, sir", Sarren said. "Allow me to make introductions."  
"High-Chaplain", Grimaldus growled. "Not "sir"".  
"As you wish High-Chaplain." 

Grimaldus suppressed the urge to hit the human commander. "This is Cyria Tyro, adjutant quintus to General Kurov." Grimaldus looked down at the slender, dark-haired female. She made no effort to salute. Instead, she spoke.  
"I am to liaison between off-planet forces – such as yours, High-Chaplain, and the Titan Legion – and the soldiers of Hive Helsreach. Simply summon me if you require my aid", she finished.  
"I will", Grimaldus said, knowing he would not.  
"This is Commissar Falkov, of my command staff", Colonel Sarren resumed.  
The officer named clicked his heels together and made an immaculate sign of the Aquila over his chest. The commissar's dark uniform singled him out with absolute clarity among the ochre-wearing Steel Legion officers.  
"This is Major Mordechai Ryken, second officer of the 101st and Xo of the city defence."  
Ryken made the Aquila himself and offered a cautious nod of greeting.  
"Commander Korten Barasath," Sarren introduced the next man," of the Imperial 5082nd Naval Wing." Korten a lean figure still dressed in his grey flightsuit, saluted smartly.  
"My men were in the Lightnings that guided you down. High-Chaplain. A pleasure to serve with the Sons of Horus again."  
Grimaldus narrowed his eyes behind his helmets false grin. "You have served with the Sons of the Warmaster before?"  
"I have personally – nine years ago on Dathax – and the Fifty-Eighty-Twos have on no fewer than four separate occasions. Sixteen of our fighters are marked with the Eye of Terra, with permission given by Mournival-Lord Tarrison of the Dathax Crusade."  
Grimaldus inclined his head, his respect solemn and obvious, despite the helm.  
"I am honoured, Barasath," he said.  
The squadron leader suppressed a pleased smile and saluted again.  
And on it went, through the ranks of senior Steel Legions officer. At the end of the line stood two men, one in a clean black uniform with a skull mask striking similar to his own, and the other in oil-stained overalls.  
Colonel Sarren gestured to the thin man in the immaculate uniform.  
"The moust honourable Moderatus Primus Valian Carsmomir of the Legio Mortis, crewman of the blessed Engine _Auqila Ignis._  
Grimaldus nodded, but made no other outward show of respect. The Titan Pilot inclined his masked face in turn, utterly emotionless.  
"Moderati," the Chaplain said. "You speak with the voice of your Legion?"  
"A full Battle Group", the man replied. The rest of Mortis is committed to other engagements.  
"Fortunate favours us that you still remain," Grimaldus said. The Titan Pilot made the cog sign of the Mechanicum, his knuckles interlinked over his chest, and Saren finished the final introduction. "And here is Dockmaster Tomaz Maghernus, lead foreman of the Healsreach Docker's Union."  
Grimaldus hesitated, and gave the mortal only a simple node. Turning back to the Colonel he began to speak. "We have much to discuss," Grimaldus and the colonel began walking towards the main tower of the Hive followed by Grimaldus Command Squad and most of the assembled Officers. "Indeed we have High-Chaplain


	5. Chapter 5

**I do not own the Warhammer 40k universe nor any of its characters**

A city.  
I am in command of a city.  
Preparations have been under way for months, but estimates pit the Great Enemy arriving in-System within a handful of days. My men, the precious few warriors that remain with me on in this city, are spread across the sprawling hive. They are to serve as inspiration to the human soldiers when the fighting becomes thickest.  
I recognise the tactical validity of this, yet lament their absence. This is not how Sons of Horus should fight. We should plunge into the enemies heart and rip it out, not wait for them behind walls.  
The hours pass in a blur of statistical outlays, hololithic projections and graphs.  
The food supplies for the entire city. How long they will last once nothing can e brought in from outside the hive. Where the food is stored. The durability of these silos, buildings and granaries. Which units are detached defending them. Mordian Guard they will defend order even if chaos breaks out. What weapons the silos can withstand. How they appear from the air. Ration projections. Sustainable food ration planning. Unsustainable food ration planning, which appended lists of estimated sacrificial casualties. Where food riots are likely to break out once starvation is a reality. Which units stand ready to quell these riots.  
Water filtration centres. How many are required to be fully operational in order to supply the entire population. Which ones are likely to be destroyed first, once the city walls fall. Underground bunkers where water is currently stored. Ancient wellsprings that might be tapped in times of great need.  
Estimates of disease once the city is shelled and civilian casualties are too heavy to be dealt with efficiently. Types of disease, Symptoms, Severity. Risk of contagion. Compatibility with the ork genus.  
List of medical facilities. Endless, endless screeds of how each one is supplied as of the most recent stock reports, to the most minute detail. New stock-checks are constantly performed. Updated information cycles in all the while, even as we review the previous batch.  
Militia numbers, conscripted and volunteer. Training regimes and training schedules. Weapons supplies. Ammunitions supplies for the civilian population currently under arms. Projections for how long those supplies will last.  
Hive Defence Forces, straddling the line between militia and Guard. Who leads the individual sector forces. Their weapons. Their ammunitions. Their proximity to significant industrial targets.  
Imperial Guard numbers. Throne, what numbers. Regiments, their Officers, their live firing training accuracy records, their citations, their shames, their moments of greatest glory and ignominy on a host of distant worlds. Their insignia. Their weapon and ammunition supplies. Their access to armour units, ranging from light scout vehicles such as Sentinels and Chimeras, through super-heavy Baneblades and Stormswords.  
The Guard figures alone take two days to file through. And this, they say, is merely the overview.  
Landing platforms come next. Hive Defence landing platforms, civilian sites already in use by the Guard, and civilian sites currently in use for the importation of essential supplies, either from Navy Vessels, traders in orbit, or elsewhere on the planet. The access to and from these sites is critical, regarding reinforcements making it into the hive, refugees making their way out, and the enemy capturing them as bases when the siege begins...  
And I endure this for nine days.  
 _Nine. Days._  
On the tenth day, I rise from my chair in Sarren's command centre. Round me in the colonels armoured fortress at the heart of the city, three hundred servitors and junior officers work at stations: calculating, collating, transmitting, receiving, talking, shouting, and sometimes quietly panicking, begging for aid from those around them. As I stand up Soren the leader of the single Reconnaissance Squad under my Commands steps out of the shadows. His cameleoline cloak no longer hiding him. Some of the aids almost jump to the sides, when Soren appears suddenly. He hands me a Data-Pad before vanishing again in the Shadows. The Pad contains a report from the Underhive of the City if this City survives the war it may make a good recruiting ground for the Legion. As i continue walking around the room Sarren and several of his officers and aides watch me. Their necks crane up as they follow my movement. It is the first time I have moved in seven hours. Indeed, the first time I have moved since I sat down this morning at dawn.  
"Is something wrong?" Sarren asks me.  
I look at the sweating, porcine commander; this man unable to shape his body into a warrior's fitness, confined as he is – and totally at home – with this relentless trial of a million, million numbers. I make a note to detach a Squad to protect him as soon as the walls are breached or else the mortal troops may very well loose all their worth.  
I ignore his question and continue studying the report Soren gave me.  
With a volume that would put a peal of overhead thunder to shame, a siren starts to wail.  
I turn back to the table.  
"What is that?"  
They flinch at the rough bark from my helm's vocaliser. Th siren keeps whining.  
"Throne of the God-Emperor," Sarren whispers.

Hive Helsreach did not have city walls. It had battlements.  
When the citywide siren began to ring, Artarion and Julius a young Marine who had come to him for council stood in the shadow of a towering cannon, its linked barrels aiming into the sick sky. Several meters away, the human crew worked at its base, performing the daily rituals of maintenance. They hesitate at the sound of the siren, and talked among themselves.  
Artarion briefly stopped talking with his younger brother and looked back at the direction of the tower fortress in the city's centre, blocked as it was from the view by distance and the forest-like mess of hive spires between here and there. He felt the humans casting occasional glances their way. Knowing they were distracting them from their necessary mechanical rites, he led his brother further down the wall. His gaze fell , as it did almost every hour since coming to the hive a week before, on the endless expanse of wasteland that reached to the horizon and beyond.  
Blink-clicking a communication rune on his visor display, he opened a vox-channel. The siren rang on. Artarion knew what it signalled.  
"About time."

I am really sorry for the long delay, but I had a lot of work to do. Which was rather detrimental to my writing progress. But now I have more time and the Battle for Helsrach will start in earnest soon.


	6. Chapter 6

**I do not own the Warhammer 40k universe or any of its characters**

From vox-towers across the city, an announcement was spoken in the deceptively colourless tones. Colonel Sarren, not wishing to incite the populace to unrest, had tasked a lobotomised servitor to speak the words to the people.  
 **"People of Hive Helsreach. Across the planet, the first sirens are sounding. Do not be alarmed. Do not be alarmed. The enemy fleet has translated in-system. The might of Battlefleet Armageddon and the greatest Legiones Astartes fleet in Imperial History stands between our world and foe's forces. Do not be alarmed. Maintain your daily rites of faith. Trust in the God-Emperor of Mankind. That is all."  
** In the control centre, Grimaldus turned to the closest human officer sat at a vox-station.  
"You. Hail the Sons of Horus ship _Lupercals Wrath,_ immediately."  
The man swallowed, his skin paling at being spoken to so directly, and with such force by an Legiones Astartes.  
"I... My Lord, I am coordinating the-"  
The High-Chaplains black fist pounded into the table. "Do it now."  
"Y-yes, my lord. A moment please."  
The human officers of Sarren's staff shared a worried look. Grimaldus paid no attention at all. The seconds passed with sickening slowness.  
" The _Lupercals Wrath_ is making ready to engage the enemy fleet," the officer replied. "I can send a message, but their two-way are in lockdown without the proper command codes. D-do you have the codes, my lord?"  
Grimaldus did indeed have the codes. He looked at the frightened human, then back at the worried faces of the command staff as they sat at the table.  
 _I am being a fool. My fury is blinding me to my sworn duty._ What did he expect, truly? That Helbreht would send down a Thunderhawk and allow him to take part in the glorious orbital war above? No. He was consigned here, to Helsreach, and there would be no other fate beyond this. _I will die on this world,_ he thought once more.  
"I have the codes," the High-Chaplain replied, "but this is not an emergency. Simply send the following message to their incoming logs, with no need for a reply: "Fight well, brothers."  
"Sent, lord."  
Grimaldus nodded. "My thanks." He turned to the gathered officers, and leaned over the hololithic display, his gauntlet knuckles on the table's surface.  
"Forgive me a moment's choler. We have a war to plan," the black clad Warrior said, and breathed out the most difficult words he had ever spoken. "And a city to defend."

Until their dying nights, the warriors of the Helsreach Strike Group bore the lamentations and rage with all the dignity that could be expected of them. But it was no easy feat. No easy feat to be consigned to a city of several million frightened souls while above the stained clouds, thousands upon thousands of their brothers were carving their glory from steel and flesh of an ancient and hated foe. The Sons of Horus across the city looked skywards, as if their helmets red eye lenses could pierce the wretched clouds and see the glorious war above.  
Grimaldus own anger was a physical ache he only felt once before, when facing the hated Blood Angels and one had taunted him, while fighting with the Crozius of Chaplain Tiberat. A hero of the Legion, who had been slain defending the body of Horus Lupercal against the greedy Hands of these Vampires. His valiant sacrifice allowing the Mournival Lords to recover their father's weapons. Now he felt the same burning anger flowing like acid through his veins. But he mastered it, as was his duty. He sat at the table with the human planners, and agreed with them, disagreed, nodded and argued.  
At one point, a whisper made its way through the room. It was a serpentine thing, as if it threaded its way from human mouths to human ears seeking to avoid enraging the black clad Legiones Astartes Warrior. When Colonel Sarren cleared his throat and announced that the two fleets had engaged, Grimaldus simply nodded. He'd heard the very first whispers thirty seconds before, of the Night Lords Strike Cruiser _tenebris vigil_ attacking the enemy, when crackled voices reported over the vox-net.  
It was beginning.  
"We should give the order," Sarren said quietly, to murmured agreement among the officer cadre. Grimaldus turned to the vox-officer he had spoken to before. This time, he glanced at the man's rank badge. The Officer saw the silver skull helm nod once in his direction.  
"Lieutenant," the Cthonian said.  
"Yes, High-Chaplain?"  
" Give the order to Imperial forces throughout Helsreach. Martial law is in immediate effect." He felt his throat dry at the gravity of what he was saying.  
"Seal the city."

Four thousand anti-air turrets along the hive's towering walls primed and aimed their multiple barrels into the sky. Orbital defence Silos in the vicinity of the city primed their lasers.  
Atop countless spires and manufactory rooftops, secondary defence lasers did the same. Hangars and warehouses converted for use by the Naval air squadrons readied the short rockcrete runways necessary for STOL fighters. Grey-uniformed Naval armsmen patrolled their bases perimeters, keeping their sites enclosed and operating almost independently of the rest of the hive.  
Across the city, recently-established makeshift roadway checkpoints became barricades and outposts of defence in readiness for the walls falling to the enemy. Thousands of buildings that had been serving as barracks for the Imperial Guard and militia forces sealed themselves with flakboard-reinforced doors and windows.  
Announcements from vox-towers ordered the citizens of the hive who weren't engaged in vital industrial duty to remain n their homes until summoned by Guard Squads and escorted to the underground shelters.  
Hel's Highway, lifeline of the hive, was strangled by Guard Checkpoints clearing the way of civilian traffic, making room for processions of tanks and Sentinel walkers, a rattling, grinding parade stretching over a kilometre. Clusters of the war machines veered off as they dispersed across the hive.  
The Sons of Horus had busied themselves since their arrival, by creating ammunition and replacement parts caches scattered across the entire city. Their Recon Squad scouting the City for advantageous positions and Jurisian had a repair station for their Power Armour constructed.  
Eighteen minutes after the sirens started to wail, the first serious problem with force deployment began. Representatives of Legio Mortis demanded to speak with the hive's commanders.  
Forty-two minutes later, born entirely of panic, the first civilian riot broke out and Arbites had to deploy to quell it.  
I ask Sarren a reasonable question, and he responds with the very answer I have no wish to hear.  
"Three days," he says.  
Mortis needs three days. Three days to finish the fitting and arming of their Titans out in the wastelands before they can be deployed within the city. Three days before they can walk through the immense gates in the hive's impenetrable walls, and station themselves within the city limits according to the agreed upon plan.  
And then Sarren make it worse.  
"In three days, they will decide if they are to come to our aid, or deploy along the Hemlock River with the rest of their Legio."  
I quench the rush of fury through a moment's significant effort. "There is a chance they will not even walk in our defence.  
"So it seems," Sarren nods.  
Projections have the enemy breaching the orbital defences in four to nine days," one of the other Steel Legion Colonels – his name is Hargus - speaks from across the table. "So we have time to allow them the largesse they require."  
None of us are seated now. The siren's drone has been lowered to less inconvenient levels, and speech is a realistic possibility for the unenhanced human officers once again.  
"I am going to the view-tower," I inform them. "I wish to look upon this problem with my own eyes. Is the moderati primus still within the hive?"  
"Yes, High-Chaplain."  
"Tell him to meet me there." I pause as I stride from the room, and I look back over my shoulder.  
"Be polite, but do not ask. Tell him."

Moderati Primus Valian Carsomir scratched at the greying stubble that darkened his jawline. His time was limited, and he had made that clear. His Mistress was calling for him.  
"You are not alone in that position," Grimaldus pointed out.  
Carsomir smiled darkly, though not without empathy. His skull-mask removed in the presence of Grimaldus. "The difference, High-Chaplain, is that I do not intend to die here. My princeps majoris is still in doubt if Mortis will walk for Helsreach."  
The Son of Horus moved to the railing, his armour joints humming with the gentle motions. The viewing platform was a modest space atop the central spire of the command fortress, but Grimaldus had spent much of his time up here each night, staring over the hive as it made ready for war.  
In the faded distance, over the city walls, his gene-enhanced sight could make out the skeletal details of Titans on the horizon. There, in the wastelands, Mortises engines also made ready. Fat-hulled landers made the wallowing journey back into Orbit as part of the final phase of Imperial deployment. Soon, within a matter of days, there would be no hope of landing anything more on the planet's surface.  
"This is the greatest of Armageddon's port cities. We are about to be assaulted by the largest greenskin-breed xenox invasion ever endured by the Imperium of Man since my father conquered Ulanor." The Legiones Astartes did not turn to the Titan Pilot. He watched the gigantic war machines, blurred by the sandy mist of distant dust storms. "We must have Titan, Carsomir. Let the Engines of Legio Mortis and the Sons of Horus fight side by side, like we did during the glorious days of the Great Crusade."  
The officer stepped alongside the Legiones Astartes, his bionic eyes – both with lenses of multifaceted jade set in bronze mountings – clicking and whirring as he followed the Chaplains gaze over the city and beyond.  
"Are you calling upon oaths sworn long ago?"  
"You leave me no other joice. I must speak with your mistress."  
"No High-Chaplain she must first decide if we hear your calling. You would break Mortis traditions."  
"Your objection is noted," the High-Chaplain said,"and duly ignored."  
"What?" the Titan pilot said, not sure he heard correctly.  
Grimaldus didn't answer. He was already speaking into the vox.  
"Artarion, ready the Land Raider and a Reaver Squad. We're going into the wastelands."


End file.
